Little Known Breaths
by cswrites
Summary: He's got enough shit on his plate, alright. Including his genuine worry that her daddy, his friend, will somehow be able to see it in his face every time Daryl happens to be in the same room as his little girl. [A series of prompts focused on Daryl and Beth in various circumstances.]
1. Pockets

The wind whips through the vast span of trees lining out along the far ends of the chain linked fence that constantly surrounds them. The greens and the greens and the yellows and the browns of their leaves shake through the open slits of the razor wire, rhythmically and haphazardly all at the same time, that Daryl often finds himself staring at and out when he's stood on the concrete just outside the prison doorways. It's strange. No matter how long him and his group stay there and no matter how many people they bring out from the constant hell of the outside world and into their fold, it's _strange_ living and sleepin' (as best he can) in a place he'd worked, hard as he could be assed, to avoid his entire life. A casual stroll, which ain't never a casual stroll to him; almost neurotically checking their exits and their people, out in the yard is always enclosed by these fences and those barbs. A constant reminder that he's ended up exactly where he never wanted to be.

But, it's different than it would've been before the world shit all over 'em, and he's grateful for these thousands and thousands of twisted wire knots.

Keeping the dead out. Keeping the_ living _out.

Keeping them safe.

Tower Three's line's been folding on 'em lately, though, and Daryl's been trying to get a good enough group together to handle the situation; there are loads of different jobs to be dished out. Needed some logs cut up and prepped for fucked situations when the walkers pushed just too far and too hard and the bent links started a downward trek towards the scattered gravel. Needed some folk to go 'round mending compromises with easy techniques 'til Daryl could find something more reliable to keep the damn thing together. Needed to make a run out to the Home Depot twelve miles out for some nails and wire and whatnot, to fix up some patches of fence that Rick had spotted on a walk around the perimeter, as well. Needed to _clean out_ that hardware store for every rope, nut, and bolt, actually, and _sooner_ rather than later. Before some other son'a bitch wised up and did what needed doing.

Daryl moves his eyes off the trees and back down to the bowl of brown rice cradled between his worked dirty fingers; staring at the earth locked underneath bluntly cut nails.

After he'd come back from his last run to the development down the way with his hand all banged up and Hershel had left his youngest to finish up the wrappings, Beth had made him cut them down once she'd managed a good look at their condition. He can't remember what it was she started going on about at the time, he'd been too focused on shoving away the thoughts of the natural pink of her lips forming every single syllable. Tucking those thoughts away, in the particular way that he did. But, he was pretty sure it was something or another 'bout his "health and safety". With nothin' more than a small pat to his hand (which prompted more thoughts that were immediately shoved in their respective pockets) she'd slinked a few cells down into her room, while he sat silent and alone out in the front lounge; trying not to watch her leave, and come back with a small set of clippers.

She made sure he was in his best condition, just like she did everyone else; always taking on the jobs that no one ever thinks about. 'Specially him.

He was supposed to get a trim of his hair from her, soon, too. But, he plans on avoiding that. She'll just shake her head, anyway, at his refusal and offer a familiar grin.

Part of a routine.

Part of _their _routine.

On his way out of the prison after a one sided conversation about his fence concerns, with Rick, this morning, he'd silently passed her by. She was sat on the far end of the courtyard, past the ho-hum cafeteria station that they'd been workin' on for weeks. It had started off pretty rickety in the beginning. But, after awhile it stood strong enough and they'd gotten some picnic tables lined up underneath. Beth hadn't been there eating breakfast with the others (she was from C Block just as he and their family was; early risers, who put both feet and an arm forward to keep their home running). She was further back on their concrete island, next to the long clothing lines that he'd gotten set up, as per her request.

There had been plans to get them nailed in place for a long while, anyway. But, he'd pushed it forward on his list of things that he needed to get done (pushed it to the top), when she'd cornered him one dim afternoon, with Ass-kicker perched carefully on the soft curve of her hip, and looked up at him with those wide and clear eyes.

...Needed a lot'a things.

Daryl shakes his own head, clears his mind, and reminds himself to pay attention. Carol's next to him, as she often is, giving him the daily report that he wishes she was givin' Rick, instead. He's not used to this, either. Being in charge of everythin' and everyone. Don't like that all of them stragglers living under this leaky roof keep turning to him with their questions and complaints. Don't like that he's in charge of keeping their ship above water. Sure as fuck don't like that _he's_ the one that has to shuffle tired legs to some poor lump of crying flesh, at the end of bad runs, and deliver the news. Sometimes he can delegate that particular duty to Glenn, seeing as he's next in charge under Daryl's temporary leadership. His friend will pause with a groan of his own despair and turn on his heel to go on his way. Or, sometimes, he can manage to pawn it off onto someone else from the Council.

But, they all want him to do it.

Want _him_ to be the one that's not able to look their group members in the eye and rip out their hearts, at the same time.

They've not had a death for a decent while, though, and he's beyond grateful for that. He's tired of seeing tears well up behind shining eyes and the unmistakable quiver of lips. He's tired of carefully ducking out of reach, so that they can't and won't expect any sort-of physical comfort out of him.

He's tired.

"I know you're heading out soon," Carol hums, her eyes squinting off to Tower Four and the small crew of people with shaved pipes and broken walking sticks clutched in sweaty palms. He can't hear the _pop_ of the metal being stabbed through the rotting bone of the sculls or the _slurp_ of the suction, but he knows it well enough. Hell, they all did. Goin' on two years of the end of the world and the familiarity of the feel of the tug was one of which they wouldn't never be allowed to forget.

"'mm," Daryl nods slightly and rolls his head on the span of his shoulders.

"If you have time, I was thinking you all could look for some aprons?" Carol tilts her head out through the fields to the far end. "Depot's likely to have a bunch in the back rooms and it's not something I can see a lot of people taking for sport."

"Aprons."

"To protect Fence Duty from splatters of blood. Small luxuries and all that," she smiles with a dip of her head and an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

Daryl dips his fingers into his bowl and scrapes along one side to gather some grains into a clump. When he manages to make a small ball of what he has left, he crooks his fingers to scoop it out and up towards his mouth. "I can do that," he speaks through mouth full of food.

"Good," Carol's hands pull up to cross across the front of her chest. "And good to have someone around here taking charge, huh Pookie?" She knocks once at his side, with the point of her elbow. "Seeing as Rick's _useless_ these days. Not much of a surprise, though. Always was a bit flake-y."

Daryl looks back down to his bowl, now empty save a few singular pieces of rice still stamped along the sides. He don't wanna talk to Carol about Rick and Rick's break. There's a reason for everything that goes on, here, and they'd _all_ agreed that their friend needed to breathe; he's not backin' out of his vote, now. Hell, Daryl's only been in charge for one or two _months_ and he's already losing his mind with the stress of it all on top of everything and everyone else that's got his mind racing in ways that it shouldn't. So, he more than understands Rick's slight fall off the ledge and his desire to drown himself in the dirt and the pigs. Even for just a little while.

But, Daryl's got enough shit on his plate without adding this discussion to it. Again.

So, he does what he always does when something's happening that he ain't got the time or the mind to deal with, he pockets it away.

He forces himself to forget about it and wills himself to move on.

"Gotta take this back," he growls noncommittally after a few moments of thought. He waves his empty bowl into the air and knocks his own elbow into her arm, before turning swiftly on his feet to walk away. Daryl vaguely hears Carol saying goodbye, but his mind's already turning over and over with the list he's tasked with for the day, to push Carol's contempt of Rick's recent attitude from his mind.

The wind picks up and he feels the chill across the edges of his face, as he makes his way back towards the bustle of activity. There's people all over the front lot, moving from one thing to another, as they're supposed to do. The kid that Rick brought in shortly after Woodbury fell, Patrick, is hovering over the grill, working alongside Karen on a batch of meat he'd recently brought in. The smell of burning wood and a rabbit drenches over the courtyard and those sitting at the tables (cleaning and striping guns) keep looking back at it, hungrily.

His last hunt didn't bring a lot of game in and he knows, by those faces, that he needs to do better next time. He makes a note.

Then, there's Glenn and Sasha, secured up in their riot gear, walking around the two cars he had them pull out of the garage, handling baskets of supplies and preparing to head out. A kid quite a bit younger than him and probably a lot more suited to the thoughts that flip through Daryl's mind, like a picture book of torment, is working alongside them. Zach. Daryl found him four weeks back alone on the side of the road, standing next to a big black car and hovering over the popped top. He's got a bit of a soft spot for the kid, actually. He's friendly to everybody he talks to, which is usually a trait that drives Daryl insane in most people. But, Zach's alright, really, and damn handy with the gun strapped to his waist.

He talks a lot, tells stupid jokes, and _sometimes_ makes Daryl smile because of it. On the inside.

But, the thing that _really_ catches Daryl's eye is on the far edge of the property.

Blonde wisps of hair blow with the breeze across porcelain skin and Daryl's feet stutter into place; physically attempting to remind him that the object of his gaze has a pocket in his mind, all for her own. Attempting to remind him that, while everything else he doesn't want to and just can't allow himself to deal with is shoved in every which direction, in every which spot, Beth Greene singularly holds a big rectangular space, in his mind.

Large, vastly deep, and _concernedly_ full.

He's got enough shit on his plate, alright. Including his genuine worry that her daddy, his friend, will somehow be able to see it in his face every time Daryl happens to be in the same room as his little girl.

With his feet holding protest and Beth's Pocket spilling over, Daryl thinks he'll be safe. But, in only a few seconds, the cloud he's becoming familiar with when he sees her slips away and his eyes adjust to see that her form is growing larger and larger, as his stride betrays him. He's stood over her, where she sits on the burning floor, before he can blink. Her legs are crossed over each other, long and seemingly smooth; something he's noted before and doesn't need to add to her space for a twentieth time. He feels bad enough that he's noticed, at all. Then again, he is the one that found the girly razors with the little pink stripes at the top, on a run to a Piggly Wiggly. The tall of his form casts something of a shadow over her and Daryl watches and waits for Beth to raise her head up to meet his eyes, "Greene."

"_Hey_," she greets him; one arm vacating the fourth basket of clothing she's been folding since she woke up earlier, to hover the flat of her palm over the hood of her eyes.

The expectant gleam is one entirely different to that of which he's just received from Carol. Where her's had been filled with purpose and a consistent jest, Beth's is calm and sincere in it's very existence. Soft, just as her being is. She doesn't raise a brow when Daryl can't seem to manage to respond, right away; just watching her. Instead, she simply waits and allows the corners of her lips to glide smoothly up when he finally speaks. "Hi."

"You're leaving, I see," Beth turns her head, breaking contact, to look over where Glenn's laughing at something Zach's saying.

Zach's charming in the way confident college kids are and Daryl sometimes finds that it, irrationally, pisses him off. It's just that he can _so easily _picture the kid getting what he's been working towards, since he first got dragged in through the twisted knots by him and Glenn. He can so easily picture Beth standin' next to the boy with their fingers locked together and a giggle in her throat; in awe that she's gotten so lucky and Daryl the opposite.

Like Beth and the pretty way she smiles, those bad thoughts have a pocket all their own, too. Rage and anger and rage at things and situations that don't deserve it. Had that particular pocket all his miserable life. It's holey and worn and _beaten_, with years and years and years of abuse and self loathing. Things that should do, never properly stay in, because of it, even though he wants them to. Because Daryl ain't no moron, he knows they're not warranted and reminds himself that he likes Ivy League (even if Ivy League laughed that he didn't go to no top college).

Still.

"Yeah, gotta get something to keep the geeks out... Fence ain't doin' so hot these days," he gruff's and clutches his fist tighter around the strap against his shoulder, as he takes her moment of temporary distraction to scope the line of her neck. The mangled and knotted black string that he'd hovered over for an embarrassing amount of time, dangles against the flat of her chest; black contrasting appealingly against the light of her skin. Beth looks back to him, her eyes flicking to where his knuckles flush red with the pressure, and back to meet his gaze. He looks away, unable to handle the stark of her blue; so much more clear and inviting than his own, even though he doesn't want to. But, he doesn't need to watch her face to feel her smile widen when he forces himself to speak, once more. "Ya need anything?"

He hears Beth plant her palm against the pavement and push herself to her feet; the bustling of the fabric of her shorts (too small, far too small) and the fabric of a long grey sheet, coming together to battle against the whistle of the wind. He looks back to her to see her hair falling haphazardly out of it's elastic and whipping 'round her face, as she thinks his inquiry over. And her pocket screams at him to keep his arm still - to not reach out and tuck the strands behind the scope of her ear, to help settle them into place and out of her way.

She's so much shorter than him and he has to look down at her. Once, when he was laid out on the uncomfortable cot in his cell, he thought about it; how he has to look down and she has to look up and in a different and better world, where she wasn't so young and pure and sweet and he wasn't so undeserving of having any of that focused on him, he could _lean_ down and she could _lean_ up.

And for just one moment, he'd get to know what it was like to taste her.

"I think I'm okay," Beth's voice in real time sings out towards his ears. The delicate of her fingers are still gripping carefully at the cloth in her hands and Daryl looks down, without moving his head, to watch her blindly begin to fold the item. Careful and elegant strokes, up and down and around, slowly but surely lessen it's mass and the pocket in his mind burns bright.

...He's never really given much thought to her fingers before this moment.

Daryl sees an edge of confusion take residence in the blue pools of her eyes, as she studies the same red of his knuckles suddenly smear over the span of his face. But, he doesn't give her a chance to question him.

"I'll find you something, anyway," he growls low and turns away without saying any more.

Another routine.

"Thank you, Daryl," he hears her voice, as he walks away, and a soft _frump_, when she lets the folded sheet fall into a separate basket and her body gliding back down to the concrete.

He nods, as if she'll see it and beelines back to his initially intended destination.

"Here," he chucks his empty bowl at Patrick, when he makes it under the canopy, and continues on walking towards the cars, before his newest shadow can start in on how good of a leader he is. How much he's appreciated.

Daryl doesn't need the lie; which is what it is, even if Patrick doesn't know it.

He can see the greens and the greens and the yellows and the browns of the leaves on the trees outside the fences, as he nears the vehicles and the crew he's taking out of the prison's confines.

It took the death of Lori and the constant weight of a year and a half worth of decisions and stress, to bring Rick down.

To make him crack.

To overflow his pockets.

Daryl feels weak in comparison.

He can practically feel Merle's ever present opinions calling him a pussy from the grave. It took the death of Lori and the constant weight of a year and a half worth of decisions and stress, to bring Rick down. And _all_ it took was the weight of one and a half _months_ worth of decisions, stress, and one ever feminine and unattainable pocket, to bring Daryl to the point he's at, now. To make him yearn for his friend's instant recovery, so that he can take the reigns, once more, and let Daryl return to his intended and comfortable position of hiding away and doing what Rick needs to be done, without being the face of it all.

When he approaches the cars, Glenn bounces slightly on the balls of his feet and turns his wide smile onto his friend, to tell him Zach's joke. "Aprons," Daryl bites out, before Glenn can utter a word.

"I - okay," Glenn pauses where he stands and shakes his head in short bursts of non-understanding. "...Wait, _what?_"

"Carol wants aprons," Daryl reaches out a hand to grasp the car handle and tugs open the driver's side door. "Then we need wire," he slides into the car, while Glenn signals for everyone else to hurry in their vehicles, as well, before sliding into the passengers seat.

"Don't worry, every one knows what they're looking for. Sasha wrote a list last Council meeting, too."

"Wire, nuts, bolts, saws for the wood, aprons," Daryl starts up the car and starts heading down the gravel drive, passed Beth's sitting form. "...A _pretty_ blanket. Something flowery and bright, or some shit." Glenn quirks an eyebrow and raises his chin up slowly. Daryl refuses to look over at the man, who's craning his neck 'round to look where Beth's fading form is pulling out another sheet from her baskets. "Greene asked us to keep a look out for something," he lies.

When he glances to his right, Daryl sees nothing but his friend smirking lazily at his side. His hands tighten once on the leather of the steering wheel and he directs his eyes back out onto the road.

He pockets Glenn's reaction away; not quite ready to deal with the fact he's so incredibly transparent, and watches the greens and the greens and the yellows and the browns of the trees zip by.

**A/N: Hiii there, lovelies. Okay, so I'm putting my prompts here [obviously] and I hope that this first one wasn't too much of a mess, oh my god. But, as I carry on with the prompts in my inbox, they'll all be of varying lengths. Some will be longer. Some shorter. It all depends. Some in our Apocalyptic world. Some in Alternate Universes of sunshine, glitter, and zero rotting corpses. Comments are welcome of course annnnnnd okie dokie.**


	2. Secret

_Note: For Day One of Tumblr's Bethyl Week: Secret_

**Black Bar Shadows**

The frigid air of the night slides inside through the cracks in the concrete walls of their home, as Daryl hovers anxiously back against the back of his bed and _waits_.

The mattress, if he can even call this flimsy shit that, is uncomfortable; the old metal springs sticking out and around in each and every jagged direction and diggin' painfully into the length of his back. It should be worse on him, but he's used to his back aching and all the cells' bunks feel the same on it, anyway- he's checked. Sometimes while he's laying there he thinks back to his tent back at the farm, before it fell in hell fire. He'd had a little cot all his own, then, the kind medical units set up in high-school gyms during the middle of a natural disasters and that. It had been good enough for him, at the time, even shot all up, like he was. His cell's cot's not surprisingly a big step down from that, seein' as it was intended to seat people like his brother and the state didn't care much for them. But, the rickety metal frame that squeaks with every harsh movement, is still better than a lot of the shit holes he's parked his ass on, during his lifetime. At least his cell, here in the prison, has a mattress and four walls surrounding him, which is, admittedly, an improvement from some of the things he's experienced in the past.

He looks through his privacy curtain (it's got a few small tears in it and it's too lightweight to really give him any privacy), towards the front wall, where all the windows are. It's black out, which is the lighting he's aiming for, and the moonlight casts down around them; black bar shadows slicin' through the visual. He can still hear Maggie's voice, though, coming out in careful whispers from her and Glenn's cell. And if he strains his attention, he can hear Hershel muttering verses quietly under his breath. So, he doesn't move, yet, and doesn't let himself think about how the ol' son'a bitch would look at him, if he knew.

It's gettin' colder out, as their days drag on. They're closer to winter, now, than they are to Georgia's heated summer. The skies are turning from the bright blues and blues, to the muted blues and greys and whites. It's familiar in a specific way that Daryl ain't really used to dealing with, yet. He feels the weight of the responsibility of the change in weather, though. Feels it sinking heavily in his shoulders; the stress of it all grinding into the fibers of his skin. And there's only one way, that he's been able to find, to get rid of the ache that only seems to go away whenever he's made contact with some part of his body. Any part.

While he waits, Daryl's mind races with all the things they gotta get done, before the browning leaves fully fall, snow sets in, and their runs become an impossible sort-of event. He knows that the fences need fortifying, because they _always_ need fortifying. All the weak spots need'ta be stabilized, as best they can be, to combat the ice that'll eventually hug the wire. He needs to ask for volunteers to head outside those links to chop at the trees, for braces, just in case the walkers manage to pile up alongside the snow and cause a mess'a shit. They also need to head out to as many houses and stores as they can, to stock up on supplies; coats, blankets, food, guns, ammo.

Maybe some toys for the kids, 'cause they'll be spendin' so much time indoors in the coming months. Beth was the one that brought it to his attention, actually. He'd always given Lil' Asskicker's toy situation thought [even though she found more enjoyment in banging everyday objects together, instead of playin' with all the dolls and shit he brought back], but not much to the other kids. There was something 'bout the hopeful glint hovering underneath the plains of Beth's face, when she'd backed him into a corner of the front lounge and asked about it, that made Daryl wonder just how close an eye she was keepin' on that damn calender he picked up on a run, for her. Made him wonder if she was gonna manage to convince him start rifling through moldy old cardboard boxes with "Christmas" marked out on the side in permanent marker, to find ribbon and string, whenever he and Glenn managed to head out.

Made him wonder _how_ she'd convince him to keep a watch out for wrapping paper and other frilly things he ain't never needed, before.

It's the first time since the turn that they've had a proper place to sleep during the winter, though, so Daryl's grateful for that change. Good'ta have a solid roof overhead and some space to themselves. Good to not be hunkerin' down in some shoddy shack with weak foundation, with the wind whipping through in a way far more drastic than these small cracks. But, it still don't ease any of his worries and hesitations 'bout how they'll fair when the food starts wearing thin and the game settles, in holes and other hiding places, away from his bow. He's responsible for these people in a way he ain't never thought he'd experience. He's responsible for the new ones who'd just been found shiverin' out in the middle of the hell, outside. He's responsible for the bus of petrified people he, Rick, and Michonne had shuffled over from Woodbury; lot's'a old folk and lil'uns that don't have much back bone, whether that's from too lil' experience with the world, or too much.

He's responsible for the people that he always plans to put before even himself; responsible for his _family_. Keepin' them warm and safe and fed, even if he has to _bleed_ a brutal wound to get it done.

Greene's always tellin' him that he's responsible for _himself_, too. That it's wonderful how much he cares 'bout it all, but it's not all on him. She leans forward and raises a hand to clutch carefully at the side of his face, as if she thinks he's gonna spin on his heels and run away from her at any second. He'd scoff and bite at her for the assumption, if he didn't know she might be right 'bout that; that the small batch of guilt that won't seem to go away, sometimes slithers down to wrap 'round his throat and his feet itch to move in the opposite direction of those eyes. She leans forward, brushes the side of his face, and tells him that all of 'em got their strengths and all of 'em got something to hold over, as their jobs to keep their small island afloat.

She tells him that he's allowed to take a break.

To relax for just a moment and stop bitchin' over every lil' thing he can't control.

Daryl sighs out carefully into the night and focuses back on the things he wants to, instead of needs. All the sounds in their block died out, sometime during the frazzle of his thoughts. Maggie's voice and Glenn's tired responses have faded away and the small light of the candle in Hershel's cell, that he'd been using to hunch over his bible, had stopped lighting up the row of cells. It's quiet and dark and just what Daryl's been waiting for, since he finally got away from the questioning of their community and set his bow down for the night.

With a skill of silence, Daryl carefully raises up from his position, in bed. He's mindful of the way his mattress dips and the frame squeaks, as he pulls himself up and off, and crosses the small floor distance to walk through his billowing curtain. It's a black night, but Daryl still makes sure to give a courtesy glance in all directions. If there's one thing he don't need, it's anyone following him out of their block and through the halls. They've been living in the prison long enough for Daryl to know all the tells on the stairwell, so he casually makes his way down from the second level, where his room is directly above her's, to the ground floor.

Beth's room, the only cell in all of C Block really worthy of the word, is dark and her thick patterned curtain is closed tight. Judith sleeps in Rick's cell every night, so he ain't too worried about his friend going to drop Lil' Asskicker off only to find her room empty.

Instead, Daryl slinks through the back gate that leads into the tombs and starts the long trek through the halls, from C Block. The sound of his boots hit softly against the floor and the echo seems more grand than it is. He'd been paranoid the first few times he came through that, even with his certain lightness of foot, each soul contact with the ground was thundering evidence of his betrayal to the eldest Greene- that it would shake the very foundation of this building and Hershel would spring awake and just _know_ what Daryl was doing to his youngest daughter.

It hadn't happened those first few times, though, and Hershel never did look at him any differently the next morning.

Daryl turns one last left and reaches out an arm to grab blindly at the door handle. He can hear the water spraying outta the shower head, already, and the muscles in his shoulders twitch knowingly at the relief he'll finally have, just by being near her; the small moment of relaxation and peace that she so effortlessly seems to give him. He's careful, as he walks in, to make just the right amount of noise, as to not scare her. He's loud enough that she knows he's there and quiet enough that he gets a moment to just _watch_. He gets a moment to just watch as the water falls over the top of her head, darkening her blonde hair, and glides down the span of wet skin, to the drains, below. Daryl ain't got no fucking clue how any of this happened- how _Beth Greene_, someone so kind and soft and sweet and _so_ fucking far outta his league that he's sure Merle's jaw has dropped from beyond the grave, took anything of a look at him and felt a desire'ta feel his marred skin against her own. Didn't make no sense to him, really. And it probably wouldn't make no sense to anyone else if they got told about it, one day, whenever that came. Daryl felt like a damn fool, sometimes, when the sun was up and people were walking about.

But, she'd smile over at him, just as she's doing now and he'd feel better 'bout it.

"Hey," her voice whispers out, even though they're far enough away from any of the blocks to be able to speak at a normal volume, and leans her head back to get out of the falling water. "Thought you might've passed out, from exhaustion."

Daryl watches small hands reach up to grab at the bottom strands of her hair and _twist_, squeezing some of the moisture out. The shower block is just as dark as their row, but there's windows here, as well. The moonlight shines through just enough for the blue, the muted blues and the greys and the whites, of Beth's eyes to pierce out brightly through the night.

"Nah," Daryl hums back and kicks carefully at the backs of his heels to knock his boots of his feet. He don't want them to fly too far or he won't be able to find 'em 'til morning. He starts on his shirt, next, popping out each button individually, while Beth clasps her hands together underneath her chin and lets her smile soften out, while she watches him. The first time she'd pulled him to her, Daryl thought she'd gasp out at the marks covering his back, or maybe hum a sad thought that he wouldn't know if it made him feel better or worse about bein' that exposed in front of her. But, she didn't do none of that. Nah, all Beth had done was pull back for just a moment and place a softer kiss against the corner of his mouth and tilt her head in silent question. He'd responded by wrapping a hand around the back of her neck, with a shake of his head, and pulling her back to him. "Your sister never wants to go'ta sleep when we're headin' down here, for some reason," he mutters under his breath, even though he knows she'll hear it. "It's like she knows and she's fucking with me."

Beth laughs lightly under her breath and turns back to the shower pump, while he tugs at the belt of his pants. She grabs hold of the crank and gives it a few more pulls, to keep the water pressure up, "Maggie'd be more obvious about it, Daryl."

"Yeah, _obvious_. That's what you think."

"No, that's what I _know_," she speaks quietly and leans back, as Daryl finally slides under the water, behind her, his hair immediately slicking back against his ears. The first touch of her skin on him has Daryl letting his head fall, with a sigh; forehead skimming the length of her shoulder and tension seeping out of his body. _He's so tired_- didn't realize just how much work it was to have a huge group of people turnin' to him for answers and didn't like what it was doin' to the crick in his neck. Daryl was too damn old to be running around organizing people with knives and pointy sticks along fences, because they were too fuckin' dense to understand the basics of "point and stab". Beth just leans back into him, as he wraps his arms around the small of her waist and shuffles himself as closely to her body, as he can manage.

"One time," she tilts her head to look back at him, under wet lashes. " -there was this party bein' thrown in a abandoned barn by Randy Berkins. He was real cute." Daryl grunts in mock offense and shakes her gently. He isn't worried about no kid from, before. 'Specially no dead kid who'd meant something to her, in whatever way. Daryl often makes an subconscious point to remember that the pair of them grew up in completely different worlds. That Beth went to pre-planned high school parties in barns, with kids in skinny jeans and Letterman's jackets, and that Daryl drove down in his truck to parking lots with music blaring outta some speakers and bikes lining the asphalt, to get as trashed as possible and find something easy to bend over. They were the type of parties where girl's from the right side of the track, like Beth Greene, would'a stood out like a soar thumb, with their pretty curled hair and perfectly clean sun dresses.

Beth just grins and knocks her head against the side of his, at his small display, "He was though! Kind-a short and a little on the loud side, but he was _real_ nice to everybody. Anyway, Randy's parents were going out'a town and that's a big deal, ya know? Because, most everyone I knew before all this worked on a farm and there wasn't a lot of reasons or time to just take random trips. But, Mr. and Mrs. Berkins found time and Randy-"

" -decided to throw a party."

"Yeah, and I-"

" -wanted to go."

Daryl feels Beth turn in her spot, so that she's standing directly in front of him, face to face. She fixes him with a pointed look and he feels his mouth quirk, through his exhausted haze. "You want to tell the story?" she looks up to catch his gaze and lifts an brow in challenge. He just shakes his head, slightly, until Beth re-starts and nods along. "It was gonna be real late at night, the party, and Daddy never wanted me out too far after dark. So, I decided the only way I was gonna be able to go was to sneak out after everyone went to sleep," Beth lifts her hands to place on Daryl's shoulders and begins to kneed them, gently. "I got up outta bed, snuck past him and Momma's room, and got down the stairs. But, when I walked through the sitting room, Maggie was lain out on the couch casually flipping through a magazine, with a smirk on her face," she presses harder against a knot. "I told her I was just getting some air, but she knew. Just started layin' it on real thick, so _I_ knew she knew..." When her hands press against something particularly tightly wound, Daryl lets out a low groan. He's pretty sure he sounds like he's dying, 'cause Beth halts her story and her eyes dart up to take in his face, "You gotta get Glenn to take some of the work out of your hands, Daryl."

He just waves her off, though, and lifts an arm to brush the wet hair outta his eyes. "Nah, I'm good," he shrugs, once, and crouches down to skim his lips against that same spot on her shoulder, where he was resting his head. "See?" his breath glides across her skin. "I'm relaxin'."

"What you want to do is the opposite of relaxing, _Mr._ _Dixon_," she breathes as Daryl presses more fully into her, and Beth tilts her head to allow him to fit in more comfortably. There's just something about her that melts away all the bad bits for a moment; smooths out the stress. Her hands clench at his arms, as he bites carefully at her skin on her neck. While he's sure he tastes like stale cigarettes and the rabbit meat that everyone ate for dinner, that night, she tastes like lemon citrus and baby powder and... he ain't never gonna understand why she wants him to touch her.

Despite his confusion on the matter, Beth lets out a shaky sigh and runs her the flat of her hands up from his arms to grasp at the hair at the back of his neck, and Daryl lifts his head to pull her lips against his.

xxx

When he wakes up the next morning, the old metal springs inside his flimsy mattress are sticking out and around in each and every jagged direction and diggin' painfully into the length of his back. But, his mind is clear. The sun's just startin' it's crawl to the high of the sky and he can hear the other's of cell block C movin' around in their space; shuffling on pants, boots, and gun holsters. Preparing for the day.

Hershel's already sat out front, by the time Daryl pushes his way outside. He's got a book, with a worn yellow cover, clutched carefully in one hand and a spoon in the other. When he looks up to greet Daryl, his eyes are plain and honest, as they always are. He ain't looking at Daryl any different, as he never is, even though his friend's been hiding something from him. Something important.

Daryl feels like a damn fool, sometimes, when the sun's up and people are walking about. But, he hears the metal rigs of the prison door screech open, and turns to see Rick holding onto Judy, walking out alongside Beth.

Who scans the length of the courtyard, until she finds him standin' next to her Daddy.

Who looks at him.

And smiles.

And he feels better about it.

* * *

A/N: Hiyyya. Okay, so, I'm vaguely pretending that this just didn't happen, because it's not quite... yeah. See, I've been working on all of my days for Bethyl Week on tumblr and just... didn't work on Day 1? And I don't know why? And let me just say, that was a _mistake_, this was supposed to be flushed out more... But, I was rushing to pull something out, because I had a graphic and no fic hahaha life is wild. Well, I hope ya'll liked it, even though I feel frazzled. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last prompt, comments and whatnot are still welcome and yeaaaaaaah okily dokily.


	3. Red

_Note: For Day Two of Bethyl Week on Tumblr: Red_

**He Knows**

Warm and soft and smooth and warm and careful and _wrong_. Everything 'bout the situation he's found himself in is so, so completely wrong and he fuckin' knows it. But, when the rough calloused edges of his fingertips glide further south, he ain't got half the mind to think about it, right now. He ain't got half the mind to even _allow_ himself to wonder what Hershel's thinkin' on him, up there in that heaven he believed so whole heartily in, or what _Maggie'd_ think of him, wherever she is- if her own heart's still beating painfully against her chest, like Greene wants to think that she is. Daryl wants to think she'd be happy for her lil' sister; that she'd get the same sort-of _look_ in her eyes that seems to be so inherent in Beth's face and that she'd just...understand. He wants to think that the friendship he's formed with Maggie over these last years- the family he's formed with her, would be enough for her to not look at him like some ol' creeper putting his hands in places he shouldn't. Leerin' and staring and touching in ways he never thought he would or ever considered.

He wants to think it's okay, because he _wants_ to be here, even if he has a hard time forming the thought into actual words that she'll be able to understand. He wants to be here, with Beth's fingers playing carefully at the back of his neck and the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest, while she moans at the bite of her lips.

But, he ain't so sure that it's true, though. He ain't so sure if the rest of 'em, if they ever fuckin' see 'em again, would _get _it or if they'd throw up their hands and snarl 'round to tell 'im how he needs to stop chasing after jail bait- find someone older or no one, at all. Daryl frowns warily against Beth's lips, as he thinks about it.

That's the bad parts of him talkin', though, Daryl knows. That's his drunkin' Pa, in the violent and tortured back spaces of his mind, clumbering up from hell, if there is a thing, to poke at the all the bad buttons that the fuckin' bastard knows'll sting and burn the most, like red wood ash raising up towards the skies. That's Merle's voice clapping him heavily on the back, right over all the subdued pain that he wouldn't never admit he knew was there, and leering over his shoulder to compliment him 'bout the piece of ass he's managed to claim- the piece of tail he'd managed to convince [even though it'd been the complete opposite; her pushing _him_ to touch her] to haphazardly hike her shirt up above her tits and shove the worn cotton of her underwear to the side, so that he could slide into her heat that first time outside on in the dark black of that night on that cabin porch, coming down into a lazy emotional buzz from all the moonshine they'd downed.

Beth grasps the back of his hair a lil' tighter and gives a rough tug, to raise his mouth away from hers, and lets one hand slide down to press against the raised lashes on his back. It pulls his attention back to the matter at hand, and he lowers his eyes to look down to where she's laying underneath his weight and scan over her face. She's lookin' at him with a familiar gleam that he's itchingly becoming used to bein' direction his way; the one that tells him to stop worrying 'bout it- stop thinkin' that he's doing something wrong, disgracing his friend's memory, and just place his hands where she wants 'em to be, already.

She pulls herself up, after him, and shuffles under his chin. He can hear the sigh in her throat- can feel it dance across the span of his neck.

"Daryl," she leans in closer to him and whispers lightly against his skin in a stark contrast the to grasp she's got on his scalp. He swallows heavily when she brushes her lips along the veins in his neck and darts her tongue out to glide along the line, "_Daryl_."

"'mm, 'm sorry," his voice feels thick, even'ta himself, hanging out in the dark space between them; slicing through the pulsing fog that brought them into the bedroom, to begin with.

It feels outta place in this soft room.

In this quiet house.

In the middle of nowhere.

Last time he checked, there ain't no walkers outside these temporary walls and there ain't any suckerin' _dogs_ leading them to their inevitable doom. There's just a small kitchen down the hall, a wide screen television with a bunch'a movies he'd like'ta be able to watch, this one bed in the upstairs bedroom, with some of the fanciest sheets he's ever touched, and _Beth_. Pure, kind Beth Greene, with her long blonde hair sticking against the slick sweat that hugs temptingly along the line of her bare shoulders, that tastes so sweet (just as he expected) against his tongue. Beth and her skin, glowing porcelain white in the low shine of the moonlight, that's pushing through the spaces of the blinds against the window, and casting small black lines hovering against their beings.

"You here?" she hums quietly, as if afraid to break the silence, the vibration making his body shiver, twitch with want, and tighten his hold of her waist; too tight, probably, but she never complains- she clasps her one hand over his and presses him more fully into her.

Sometimes when they're hiking through the woods, without any clear destination but "_family family they're alive someone has to be_", Daryl thinks back to the first few years of his life, before all this shit and that shit, too, when his Ma held out and off the drugs for as long as she could manage. He could vaguely recall her reading to him in the middle of the night when he'd gone to bed with extra bruises, to try and get him to go to sleep. _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_ was a favorite for her, if not him, so he'd happily listened to the croak of her cigarette ridden voice, as the lids of his eyes drooped closed. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood. "'mm, you with me, Mr. Dixon?"

Daryl doesn't speak, which is normal for him, he supposes. He just nods against her, slowly, in response and loosens his hold to flip himself onto his back. He leans his self more comfortably against the mattress, before draggin' her up and over him, so she can swing a leg over to the other side. He groans in mock discomfort at her weight landing on him, as she makes to straddle his hips and then he groans in frustration as she brushes herself against him, wet and warm and soft and smooth and warm and wrong.

She smirks at him as she leans down to press a simple kiss to the corner of his mouth, before pulling back to reach down between them and wrap a hand around him. His breath hitches in his throat and he does his best to keep watching her; to not clench his eyes at the silk of her hand. Her hair falls down, curtaining them both, and he can see her so much clearer this close. Her eyes are dilated, the black overtaking the normally clear blues, and her body is tinged with the anticipatory red flush that always ends up covering the span of her skin. He loves the flush in a way he's not sure how to describe; this completely obvious representation that he's not alone in this- that she's just as worked up, as he is.

Just as desperate to feel the rushing comfort rolling through their bodies and the clenching of their toes, as they trip over that line.

She's so fuckin' _perfect_, that Daryl ain't got a clue what he's doing in the middle of nowhere, this house, in this bed, with a _very_ naked Beth Greene running her hand along the length of him and smiling so fondly, like she's happy that they're the only ones there. Every little thing about her's too good for him, from the flush covering her glowing skin, to the look in her eyes, to the small birthmark over the flat of her chest, that he always makes sure to run an open palm over, and he don't deserve none of it. Don't deserve none of her attention, this attention, 'specially the bright and happy smile she gives him, as she finally lines herself up above him and sinks down.

He don't deserve the way her mouth drops open and the way her name slips from his lips in an almost inaudible sigh. The dark tan of his fingers dig into the creamy flesh of her thighs- deep, tight craters, as he pulls her down to him and holds her close, while she moves on top of him and he raises to meet her. He don't deserve the way her nails scratch just right into his skin, making new and fading red lines right next'ta his old tarnished ones, flourished in bad memories, like she thinks he needs a reminder that this is different, or somethin'.

He don't.

He knows.

Beth's slick skin slides against his and Daryl feels his heart beat faster, as she clenches around him. It's not just this- sex. He ain't had none since the world fell and if he were Merle or..._anyone_ else, that'd be the important thing- the way she's rockin' up and down and grindin' against him. It ain't, though. It's _her_. It's this ethereal being of happiness and good and hope, that's somehow pushed and shoved her way underneath his skin; broken through this barrier he's been cinder-blocking since his Pa first flipped his buckle open, slinked his belt through the denim loops, and whipped it against his skin. And she didn't do nothing he didn't want, neither. 'Some reason he feels like he was waiting for it- for someone to do just what she'd done and push him the _right_ way. Nah, it ain't 'bout gettin' laid. It's 'bout the way she can be sweet as cotton candy, one second, and call him out on his shit, the next. It's 'bout the way he can sit in her silence and not feel smothered or pressured to prove himself and...

Damn it, he _knows_.

Daryl had been fuckin' petrified that first night, as she pawed at his shirt and popped a few of the buttons open, so that she could get a hand against his chest. She'd whispered into his skin and sighed and _mewled_ and gently groaned and told him that she wanted it. That she wanted it and _them_ and it didn't matter none if it was just that one time, because she felt something there. Between the pair of 'em.

Beth's breathing picks up and he knows that she's close.

He don't wanna remember those thoughts that fluttered through his mind, while she grabbed his hand and pulled it down against her, that night on the porch of the cabin they burned to the ground.

He's past that, now. Now, save them thoughts 'bout their family's ghosted opinions on the matter, he knows he wants'ta be here. Can't never seem to get the words out 'bout what this means to 'im. Can't never seem to pull the burning red flames outta the deep underbelly of his soul, to tell her how he feels. Can't seem to open his mouth to explain what the feel of her sliding over him, does to his mind.

It's like falling off a ledge, as Greene tightens up, her body falling down against his- whimpering into his ear, which is all that it takes for him- thrusting into her a few more times, and falling off the ledge, himself.

He can't never seem to choke out the way his heart pounds behind his breast bone, whenever she glides her hand down the exposed flesh of his arm when he comes home from a huntin' trip, safe and sound and without no harm, as if it's the most important thing in the world, to her. Don't know what to say at night, in a ratty house, abandoned barn, shack, or the simple cold dirt of the earth's floor, whenever she slinks up'ta him and clutches a delicate hand in the fabric over his heart.

Can't explain how it makes him feel.

That don't matter none, either, though, Daryl thinks as he wraps an arm 'round her body and places a chaste kiss to her temple; prompting her to hum in content.

'Cause she knows, too.

* * *

A/N: This is late. I'm sorry.


End file.
